


A Pack of Wild Ficlets

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Christmas, Crush, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Karaoke, Love, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Music, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>assorted and mostly un-related ficlets that have appeared on Tumblr (zjofierose). not necessarily in the same universe as each other, anything else I write, or even really the series itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. two, three, four...

**Author's Note:**

> ratings may change depending on the chapter

"You play?" Stiles can't help the note of surprise in his voice as he takes in Derek crouched on the front steps of the Hale house, sleekly curved guitar under his arm.

Derek eyeballs him with the look that Stiles has come to realize is two parts affection to one part wariness, then twitches an eyebrow and shrugs.

"Huh."

Derek's determinedly not looking at him, which means he's embarrassed, but he's also still playing- something soft, but rhythmic. It seems vaguely familiar in the back of Stiles' brain, but he can't place it. It's lovely, though, and he's a little mesmerized by the motion of Derek's capable fingers on the fretboard and strings. The tune shifts, moves a little faster, and Stiles finds himself drawn closer and closer, settling on the top step a foot to Derek's right.

He steals another look at Derek, his face in the shadow of the house. The sun is edging downward, lighting the tops of the trees a brilliant yellow-green while sinking the ground into shade. Derek looks like every coffee-house aficionado's wet dream, with his white t-shirt and his days of stubble, his broad hands reaching nimbly from string to string. He should be at an open mic somewhere, making fan girls flutter and swoon, and fan boys offer him a cigarette oh-so-casually after his set. Not here, feet from his sister's makeshift grave.

On the other hand, it's Derek. He's always right where he needs to be, Stiles thinks.

"You sing, too?"

Derek chuckles quietly, and yeah, things have settled down for a while, but Stiles still isn't used to seeing Derek relaxed enough to laugh. He loves it, loves the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners, and the way his mouth is wide, rather than deep, the way he has a few too many teeth to fit in his smile. It's good on him, makes Stiles wish he'd known Derek better when they were all kids, before all the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan, and Derek's default expression fell to "scowl of doom".

"God, no. Can't carry a tune." He glances at Stiles, who must look a little incredulous, because he chuckles again. "No, really. I have just enough ear to hear how impressively bad it is."

Stiles _hmms_ noncommittally, jiggling his leg in time to the rhythm. The light is fading, and the tune is winding into his brain. Derek slides keys, his eyes closed and dark head tipped as he leans in to the movement of his arms.

"I didn't know you sang."

Derek is looking at him, and crap, Stiles hadn't really realized he was humming under his breath. Or apparently not -so –under-his-breath. He shrugs.

"Haven't really since I was a kid. My mom, though..." he pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. "She was in some kind of local folk band in the 80s. Loved to sing. They did a lot of like..." he waves a hand at Derek's guitar "you know, celtic-y stuff. Ballads. That sort of thing. She sang a lot."

Derek nods, keeps playing. This is why they're friends, Stiles thinks- they can be together without poking the sore spots. Intentionally, anyway. So much went wrong those first couple of years, and there's no going back on some level, you can't ever un-do or un-say or un-feel anything, not really. But you can move on, and they have- they listen to each other, like they always did, but since things have calmed down they both have less need to _push push push_ against everyone and everything. Now it's calm, slow. There's a tension, but it's low and sweet, left alone in the dark to move at the speed of its own currents, brushing through them, but not yet overflowing the banks.

Stiles sprawls out his legs down the porch steps, leans back on his hands. He recognizes this tune from way back, from when he was little and he could hear his mom and her friends downstairs, when the wine would flow and the instruments would come out, when he was supposed to be sleeping in his bed, but would drag his blanket and stuffed wolf out to the top of the stairs and curl up, listening.

He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth.

 _"Oh, Annan Water's wondrous deep, and my love is wondrous bonny... I'm loathe for him to wet his feet, for I love him best of any..._ "


	2. My Baby Don't Care Who Knows It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr=zjofierose

_"Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love you. Birds singing in the sycamore tree... Dream a little dream of me..."_

 

The bar is mostly empty now. It's last call, waitresses unobtrusively collecting the empty glasses from sticky puddles on abandoned tables. Scott's asleep with his head in Allison's lap, mouth open as he snores lightly, her hand absently stroking patterns around the edge of his hair line. Isaac's got his head on her shoulder, not quite out for the count yet, but blinking his big blue eyes open and closed, open and closed. 

 

It's been a good night, Derek thinks, a really good night. They've been doing this sort of thing for a while, getting everyone together and going out to just have fun. They're all in college now, even Derek, and though no one's moved all that far away, everyone's busy, on different schedules. It helps to have a standing date to just be together, to just be pack, to just be. 

 

He's not sure whose idea the karaoke was, though he's willing to bet it was either Lydia or Danny. They'd all crowded in to the big, round, corner booth and set up camp, ordering massive plates of nachos for the table, and pitcher after pitcher of beer. Derek had found himself wedged in between Stiles and Erica, and had looped arms around both of them, pulling them in to settle warm and squirmy against his sides. 

 

They're ok these days, most days, most of them, mostly. They're all a little rough around the edges. A little prone to insomnia, a little too quick to react to a sudden noise. There're enough assorted PTSD symptoms in their little pack to fill a book, but they get by, they do, and what's more? He thinks they're honestly happy.

 

_"Say nighty-night and kiss me... just hold me close and tell me you'll miss me...while I'm alone and blue as can be... dream a little dream of me..."_

 

Danny thinks he's the second coming of Frank Sinatra, and really, no one's about to argue with him. Derek lost count of how many phone numbers he picked up by his third song, and Erica absolutely brought down the house with her rendition of Fever. Isaac and Scott can't carry a tune in a ten gallon bucket, even if they're both holding the handles, but that's what karaoke is for anyway, so everyone stomped and shrieked and applauded for them anyway, especially when they started butchering the Spice Girls four beers in. Boyd did one turn, belting out a surprisingly respectable version of Iron Man, and Lydia sings like she does everything else- perfectly, forcefully, and with flair. This holds true even on No Scrubs, which had made Jackson roll his eyes and everyone else dissolve in laughter at the pained look on his face.

 

Derek and Allison have sat the singing out, taking on purse-watching, round-ordering, and song-suggesting duties. It says a lot about how the emotional maturity of the pack has grown, Derek thinks, that they've been left to it- Derek was never a solo performer, even before the fire, and that hasn't changed. Allison... he doesn't know her reasons, but he's not going to pry, and neither is anyone else.

 

_"Stars fading but I linger on dear, still craving your kiss.. I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear... just saying thiiiiissss...."_

 

Stiles is the last one on the stage tonight, still half drunk and listing tiredly under the heat of the lights. Derek wants to wrap him up in his arms, feel the weight of him lax and lazy against his own body, warm and pliant and willing. Stiles must feel the direction of his thoughts, because he catches Derek's eye with his own, biting his lip gently and swaying his hips to the music as a slow smile transforms his face.

 

He's been doing it all night, this thing, and it took Derek two full songs to catch on, which he's a little ashamed about, but he was happy, distracted. It started out with Stiles doing Ella, and Derek loves that he knows these things now, knows that Stiles loves old jazz, that when he wraps his lips around the words " _don't sigh and gaze at me, your sighs are so like mine_ " that Stiles doesn't have to look at the prompter because he knows these songs, they're in his head. 

 

He should have noticed then, with Stiles on-stage and laughing at himself as his mouth shaped the line  _"your eyes mustn't glow like mine, people will say we're in love..."_ , but it's still new, this thing they're doing, and for all that Derek follows every breath, every heartbeat, sometimes he still misses the obvious. Stiles had come back, slid under his arm again, let Derek rub his face into Stiles' hair, and smiled blindingly, tangling their fingers together under the table.

 

It's still new, but it's been years in the making, and they haven't bothered to keep it a secret- why should they? It's become habit, in the couple of years since everything finally settled down a bit, to celebrate all the good things, no matter how small. Stiles snuck off to take a second turn, his capable baritone carrying across the room, his face warm and charming. " _My baby don't care for shows, my baby don't care for clothes, my baby just cares for me..."_ Boyd had grinned at him and bumped his shoulder, and Derek had smiled back, cheeks flushing in pleasure as Erica leaned across to drag the food out of Isaac's clutches and closer to her face. 

 

It's easy, easy like he never thought it'd be. He'd never spent much time imagining Stiles and him together, what was the point? He didn't have time for dreams, he was too busy not dying. They all were. But now that its happened...it's...normal. And calm. And good in a way that has Derek holding his breath. Stiles has a romantic streak a mile wide that trips Derek up when it's directed at him; he has a hard time not seeing romance as manipulation, and they'd had their one fight over that, in the first week when Stiles had brought him flowers and Derek had asked warily what he wanted. But then they'd talked it out, using words, and some hand holding, and figured out that spontaneous things are ok, it's plans that scare Derek the most, and so now Derek is listening to Stiles sing _"sweet dreams till sunbeams find you, sweet dreams to leave your worries far behind you...",_  and he gets it, finally gets it, so he's pushing himself out of the booth, walking up to the stage. 

 

Stiles is laughing as Derek pulls him down, dragging him bodily into his arms as the last bars of the song end, kissing his welcoming mouth. Stiles is loose on his feet, sleepy and punch drunk, and goes happily into his coat and into the car, door slamming on the cold and starry night sky. He waits till Derek's buckled, leans over to kiss his cheek and laugh, singing under his breath.

 

_"And in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me."_


	3. Merry Christmas, Derek Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the christmas ficlet no one asked for (derek hale and his stupid birthday)

You're not quite sure why you do it, but like so many things, you do it anyway- you put on your coat, and you get in your jeep, and let it idle until it's warm enough to drive without choking halfway out the driveway, and then you take the two streets, three county roads, and one overgrown gravel lane until you're outside Derek's house, turning your engine off and sitting for a moment in the silent dusk while you try to figure out exactly what you're doing.

Derek's on the porch, you can see his dark outline against the ghostly white of the remaining columns and front walls, and if you didn't know better, you'd think he was waiting for you, but that's not possible, because even you didn't know you were coming out here till you did it. Maybe you'd thought about it, maybe you'd been turning the idea over in your head for a few days, worrying on it, chewing it over when you've been supposed to be wrapping presents, or studying, or listening to Scott endlessly debate what he's going to get for Allison and Isaac. But you hadn't _known_ you were going to do it, and if you didn't, neither could anyone else.

Because here's the thing- Christmas was your mother's favorite holiday, and so for all the sadness that you feel, and that you know your dad feels, all year long, at her birthday, on the anniversary of her death, at your sad little family Thanksgivings, on Christmas you make a fucking _effort_ , and it's nice, it always is. It's you and your dad, and presents, and stockings, and sticky buns and coffee, and then Scott and his mom come over in the afternoon, and then you watch movies on TV and eat yourself into a stupor while Melissa cleans out your dad at poker in the kitchen, and it's good, a little bittersweet, sure, but good. Christmas is sacred, always has been. Christmas Eve, though, is the night your dad works at the station in exchange for having all of Christmas Day off, and so it's never been important, it's always just dicking around on the computer, or maybe last minute shopping with Scott for his mom, or even just staying in your pajamas all day and seeing how many times you can jerk off before you're too bored to stay awake anymore.

And this is the other thing- one time when you were snooping through your dad's work computer, you looked up Derek's file, and it had all the same information it would have for anyone; name, age, address, and birthday. At the time, you just laughed, because of fucking _course_ the dude with the most absurdly tragic life also has the worst possible birthday in the world, and then you pretty much forgot about it, because it was mid-summer, and there were lots of other things going on that deserved a lot more attention than Derek Hale and his stupid ridiculous birthday.

The passenger door opens with a rush of chilly air, the breeze today has been coming down from the sierras, and it may not snow in Beacon Hills more than once or twice a year, but the mountains are ice-packed and beautiful, and the wind that travels down carries the promise of darkness and cold. Derek looks the same as he always does- jeans, boots, leather jacket, vague scowl- but he's combed his hair to the side and is wearing some kind of dark red sweater thing that is surprising in its presentability.

"Where we going?"

He shrugs.

"Church. You're driving."

You must look at him funny, because he makes a face at you in turn, not quite a scowl, but instead that twist his face does when he's letting too much of himself show and didn't realize it till too late.

"Didn't know you were religious, dude." You turn the key, happy that the engine is still warm enough to turn over with no coaxing. "I mean, Scott goes to St. Mary's with his Abuela, but I didn't know church was a thing for werewolves." You frown, thinking. "Wait, wasn't there some dog-headed saint? Was he a..."

"We're Presbyterian, Stiles." Derek leans his seat back as you pull down the drive, thunking one booted foot onto the dash and closing his eyes. "I'm not religious, not really, but. It's Christmas Eve." He shrugs again. "It's what we do. So. Drive."

You do.

You get there a little early, and have to take a minute to steel yourself, because the last time you were in a church was for Mom's funeral, and it's not like you went often before that, so it's kind of your most memorable church experience, but it was a different church, St. James down on Ash street, so you psych yourself up and get out of the car. Derek looks a little apprehensive too, but does what he always does, which is to shove his hands in his pockets and lower his head and walk determinedly straight at whatever is the threat _du jour_ , so you follow him, wishing you'd at least put on a nicer shirt.

You sit in the back pew, watching silently as it slowly fills up, the lights low and candles going all around. Eventually your pew is full, and you're elbow to elbow with Derek, feeling the warmth of his body pressed through his sweater into your sleeve as you stand for the hymns and sit for the sermon and stand again to sing. Derek sings, which is kind of shocking, because really, _really_ , of all the things you ever expected to come out of his mouth, _O Little Town of Bethlehem_ was really not even close to being on the list. Also, he's bad at it, which he must know, because he sings very quietly, but you're shoved in close enough you can tell. You don't sing, because it feels weird, and because you're fidgeting too hard to deal with a hymnal and program both right now.

Halfway through the service you catch a glimpse of Peter a few rows up and across the aisle, and you wonder for a second if Derek knows he's here, and then remember that, _duh_ , they're werewolves, of course he knows. You don't know what to think of it, really, because you _hate_ Peter, hate him with an intensity you didn't know you were capable of, and yet he looks so human right in that moment, and you remember that Derek had said once that Peter had lost his wife and children in the fire, and you lose the next twenty minutes trying to imagine what each and every Hale had looked like, which is hard, because even though you know some of their names, you don't know all of them, and you don't even know what relations they all were to Derek, to each other, or how old they were when they died, or anything, really, you don't know anything about Derek's family.

The service finishes, and there's coffee and cookies afterward in the parish hall. You eat four chocolate cookies and a very large gingerbread man complete with icing and red-hots for eyes that you dunk in your coffee while you stand against the wall and watch Derek. Peter's fucked off to somewhere else, you saw him heading for the door as soon as the service was over, but Derek, Derek is being charming and harmless in a shocking way, the only thing you've seen even remotely like this was when he was flirting with the desk deputy, but that was so obviously fake to anyone not on the receiving end of it, and this seems genuine, and you're almost creeped out by it, because it drives home even more how little you know this person in front of you. The old women hang on his arm and ask about his years in college while he was away, and the older men shake his hand solemnly and clap him on the back, communicating without words both their sorrow for his innumerable losses and their pleasure in seeing him again. It's completely surreal, and it must be for Derek too, because it's not too long before he's setting his cup on the counter to be collected by another smiling blue-haired lady in a holiday sweater, and shrugging into his leather jacket, raising his eyebrows at you and nodding toward the door.

The drive back to his house is silent, because it's one of the very, very few times in your life when you're actually at a complete loss for words. You keep thinking of things you _could_ say, or things you _should_ say, but none of them are right, and it's Christmas Eve, and for once you'd like to not spoil things, so you press your lips shut until you're pulling into the Hale driveway again, throwing on the parking brake and cutting the engine.

"Well" you say, blowing out a breath that clouds the inside of the windshield, obscuring the faint flurries that are just beginning, "happy birthday, Derek!" You put on your best shit-eating grin and turn to face him, one hand on the wheel and one on the gear shift.

Derek takes one look at you and throws his head back, laughing more freely than you've ever heard, laughing long and loud to the point where you almost wonder if he can't stop, but really, you're chuckling too, and probably sometimes just laughing is the only way that Derek can cope with the complete paean to tragic drama that is his life, so you laugh then, too.

"Thanks, Stiles." He's wiping his eyes and reaching for the door handle, but leans over to rub a hand over your head, making you shiver. "Merry Christmas."

"Hey!" He's got the door open, but turns to look over his shoulder curiously at you as he slides onto his feet. "Come by tomorrow?"

He's surprised, and you want to take it back, because it seems like too much, and you don't know what you're doing here anyway, what this whole thing was about, but then he nods thoughtfully at you and smiles, and fuck all if that doesn't just give you the warm and fuzzies, but whatever, it's seasonally appropriate and everything, you can be as warm as fuzzy as you like, no excuses needed.

"Yeah. Ok." He nods, his face open in a way you're not used to seeing. "Drive safe, Stiles. See you tomorrow."

The door slams, and you start the car on auto-pilot, engine rumbling.

"Yeah" you say into the empty car as you throw it into reverse, the flurries starting to coalesce into actual snow, "yeah. Merry Christmas, Derek."


	4. #1 Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It'll stop hurting eventually. Everything does.

No one ever said that being in a relationship with someone meant you wouldn't still fall for other people. Or actually, probably someone did, but they were idiots.

It's a good thing he's got going with Braeden; sure, it was a little strange, at first. A little awkward. They're both younger than they seem, and neither one of them's got a whole lot of healthy going on, but they've come to an agreement, and it suits them both, and he's not particularly inclined to jeopardize it.

He's not stupid. He knows how Stiles used to look at him. He knows what Stiles' heart sounded like rushing in his sensitive hearing when Derek used to growl at him, what the heaving of Stiles' chest felt like under the warm flat palm of his hand. They've always had a connection, some chemistry; a spark, if you will.

But that's as far as it goes, and Derek can't blame him. Who'd want him, after all? Failed alpha, only remaining son of a slaughtered dynasty. Arrogant, overly pessimistic, and with a martyr complex to put saints to shame? No. Braeden's baggage goes with his, and they don't need to talk about their pasts, or pick out throw pillows, or have breakfast with one another's (deceased) parents. They fuck, they watch bad movies and eat good Chinese, and it's good. Simple. Really, the best he's going to get.

Besides, Stiles has Malia now. Derek sees them together all the time. Stiles leans in to her, bends his dark chaotic head over her sleek fair locks, lets her lead him around by the front of his plaid shirt. They're older now, getting close to graduation, been together over a year at this point, but still act almost like siblings, except for the sex.

He's not sure if he could say if either of them are happy, really, but high school relationships are like that. One minute you're up, the next minute you're down; one minute the love of your life is dead in your arms, the next minute your new girlfriend is burning your family to death. C'est la vie. It's how you gain experience, how you learn who you are, and what you want, and what's good for you, and what's not. He wouldn't deprive Stiles of that for the world. Even if Stiles wanted him to. (He doesn't, Derek's sure.)

And so what if Derek's chest seizes hard enough that Braeden's fingers tighten on his in concern at the holiday party? It's just Stiles and Malia kissing under the mistletoe. He'll be ok, he just needs to take a couple deep breaths, and maybe go outside for a minute. It's not like he's in denial about his stupid fucking crush. Stiles ruins him, he's always known that. But Stiles has Malia, and Derek has Braeden, and there's no universe in which it's okay for them to be together, not when Stiles has a family and a future and Derek has a burned out husk and trust issues.

It's ok. It will stop hurting. Everything stops, in time.  


End file.
